at war and on the stormy seas
by xahra99
Summary: 1706. Flint meets Gates for the first time. Pre-series. Complete. Part one of an eight-part series


at war and on the stormy seas

A Black Flag fan fiction by xahra99

"For in my day I have known many bitter and shattering experiences at war and on the stormy seas. So let this new disaster come. it only makes one more."-The Odyssey

The tale of how Flint met Gates.

Lord Ashe: "You became the captain of a pirate crew in four months?"

Flint: "I became the captain of a pirate crew faster than that. It took us four months to secure our first significant prize."

Lord Ashe: "How did you manage that so quickly?"

Flint: "I met a man in a tavern."

Nassau, 1706

"Why are you here?" the barmaid asks James as she fills his tankard.

James drinks, grimacing. The local rum is called kill-devil for good reason. The liquor burns his throat as he swallows. "Good question."

It had all seemed so simple in London. Sail to the Caribbean, continue what Thomas had started. Make Nassau British again.

But Nassau is not the port that James remembers.

There are more pirates in the bay than honest men. New Providence's planters have retreated to fortified estates in the island's interior and pretend that none of this is happening. Her sailors have all joined the account and her merchants fence the pirates' stolen cargo. The scent of rot is everywhere; the stink of untanned hides, of stagnant seawater, of cloudy, humid heat. James remembers the insects, the terrible weather, and the way that the buildings lean drunkenly against each other. He does not remember so much tawdry decay. Everything he sees is damaged, rotting, wounded, or in some way spoiled. Nassau has become a pirate's paradise; an island only the strong can survive.

He has come, in accordance with Thomas's wishes, to redeem Nassau. But Nassau does not wish to be saved. Not yet. To succeed James must change this way of thinking, must become part of Nassau in a way that seemed impossible in the drawing rooms of London. He must become a pirate.

"I'm looking for a ship," he tells the barmaid.

His words catch the attention of a group of men at the next table; hard men clad in poorly tanned leather and stolen finery, pirates to the core. They laugh at him.

"Men don't buy ships!"

"We take them!"

James ignores them. "Perhaps a place, then, on a crew."

"I don't know." The barmaid spares the jeering pirates a glance. "They're right, you know. You look like Navy."

"I'm just a sailor."

She gives him a doubtful look. "You don't look like _just_ anything. Don't sound like it either." She fills up James's beer. "Now I can't help you find a crew. But I do have other talents. Want to fuck?"

He shakes his head. "Not interested."

She shrugs. "Your loss."

James leaves the bar. He pushes past the pirates, who laugh. One shoves James between the shoulder-blades.

James spins around and plants a punch in the nearest pirate's face. The man's nose crunches meatily beneath his knuckles. He can't believe how good it feels. For a moment he's fighting Lord Hamilton; the Navy and all the other Government bastards who sentenced Thomas to Bedlam and exiled James and Miranda to this pirate purgatory.

His satisfaction only lasts for a few seconds. Then the pirate's mate hooks James in the kidneys. He topples and lands sprawling across the bar. The blow knocks the breath from his body and bloodies his mouth. He hears a pistol cock behind him and realises that he is going to die.

"For goodness' sake," a woman says crossly, "don't shoot him in the- "

The pistol roars deafeningly.

 _Thomas_ , thinks James. Then he realizes that, against all odds, he is still alive.

Somebody screams. James doesn't waste time wondering what happened. He grabs a tankard from the table, spins, and smacks the nearest man around the head. The tavern spins around him. He strikes his mark more by luck than judgment. The pirate staggers backwards and falls over his mate, whose gun has-fortunately for James-exploded in his hand. Pieces of pistol are scattered round the floor. The mate rolls amid all the debris and screams as he stares at the place where his right hand used to be.

 _One man down_ , thinks James. _Two to go._

The first pirate goes straight for his knife, a short blade, thankfully, as it's too close for cutlass work. He lunges forwards, slicing James's shirt and catching him a glancing blow to his arm before burying his knife into the surface of the bar. It takes him a second to let go of his blade. James grabs his own short sword, lunges, and stabs the man in the arm. He yanks the blade out, dripping gore, and buries it in the pirate's throat.

The remaining pirate recovers enough to punch him in the face. James drops his blade. The man grabs him by the hair and smashes his face into the table. He tastes blood, sees stars.

The pirate slams a fist into his ribs. The pain brings him to his senses. He kicks the man between the legs but misses his parts. As the pirate wrenches his head back James slams backwards and catches the bridge of his nose with the back of his skull. The collision knocks them both half-senseless. By the time James recovers they're both on the floor, and the pirate's hands are wrapped around his throat.

James grabs for his knife, for a sword, for anything he can use. He finds a table leg, but the table refuses to budge. The pirate's thumbs press up under James's jawline with enough force to send his vision darkening at the edges. He scrabbles for something-anything-he can use as a weapon. His fingers touch soft fabric. It takes him a few seconds to realize that the garish paisley pattern floating before his eyes isn't a feature of his oxygen-starved brain, but a prostitute's dropped scarf.

James loops the gauze into a noose. He gets it round the pirate's tanned and corded throat on his second try. The he pulls as hard as he can with both hands. At first the pirate's hands tighten, and he thinks it hasn't worked. Then the pirate's grip slackens, and he collapses.

James hauls the scarf tighter.

When he is quite sure the man is dead he takes the man's knife from his belt and stabs the wounded pirate in his throat. The unfortunate man slumps, his wails silenced, his right hand a stump of splintered bone.

Rather belatedly, a woman screams.

James bends and loosens the scarf from the dead pirate's neck. He balls the gauze in his fist and presses it to his arm before he stands, panting. He barely recognizes his reflection in the tarnished mirrors, teeth bared, face smeared with blood; a whore's crumpled scarf clutched in one clenched fist.

By the time the blood is staunched, the tavern has returned to normal. It's obviously not the first time the inn has seen a fatal brawl. A pair of burly hired-men push through the crowd and haul the first dead man away by his heels. James makes way for them, muttering a _sotto voce_ apology.

He goes back to the bar and captures a bottle of rum. Flask in fist, he secures a seat next to a portly man with mutton-chop whiskers. In London, the man would be a prosperous merchant; a grocer or costermonger. In Nassau he is a pirate.

They drink in silence for a while. Then the man looks down at his beer and across at James. "You said you're looking for a ship."

James nods. The motion sets his head pounding. "You have a ship?"

"Not me." The man turns in his seat and gestures to the remaining corpses on the floor. "He did."

James spares the dead men one last glance. They look no more prepossessing the second time around. "Did he?"

The portly gentleman nods. "That man you killed was Captain Grinnaway. I am-I _was_ -his quartermaster." He taps his chest. "Hal Gates."

"I sincerely hope that there are no hard feelings," James says. He doesn't particularly care either way, but he doesn't think he has enough energy left for another fight.

"None." Gates says ruefully. "Six months since we last took a prize worthy of the name. Time for a change, that's what I say. You need a ship. I need a new captain. Seems to me we could help each other out."

"A mot commendable attitude," James agrees. He takes another drink. The rum tastes better now. It's possible that the drink is an acquired taste, although he doubts it's worth the effort required to acquire it in the first place. "What sort of ship?"

"The _Walrus_. Twenty men. Sixty-five feet. One hundred tons."

"A bit small."

"She's nimble." says Gates. "Can sail into the wind so quick no warship can catch her. She sails well." He runs a hand across his bald scalp. "Sail better with a good captain."

"I find it hard to believe you cannot find a captain," James says cautiously.

"There's no shortage of men who would be captain. Whether they can handle the task or not is an entirely different story."

"Why me?" James asks bluntly.

Gates shrugs. "The crew want a captain who can win. They need a captain who can think. Seems to me you could be both."

"I just killed your last captain. We both know that's not how things are done. Even in Nassau."

"And if you fight with such determination at sea there's no man who can stand against us." Gates says cheerfully. "If you don't, you won't be captain long. No hard feelings, eh?"

"I'll take my chances." James says grimly.

"That's the spirit!" Gates agrees. "Anything else?"

James shrugs. "Your captain was right about me."

"Pardon me?"

"I was in the Navy once. And that means I know how they work. I know how they sail. I know every course from Cadiz through to Lima. I believe that I'm the best man in the Caribbean to help you avoid them. We can hunt unopposed. Take more prizes than you've ever dreamed."

"I dream big."

"And I dream bigger." He jabs his finger at Gate's chest. "I will make our crew strong. I will make _you_ rich. And I will lead you to a future which you can scarcely imagine."

"Sounds good to me." Gates rolls up his sleeve, spits on his right palm and offers James his hand. "It's a deal. I hope you can sail as well as you talk."

James takes it without hesitation. "Better."

Gates nods. "Then welcome to the _Walrus_. A toast to Captain- "He pauses. "What's your name?"

James has spent some time considering his pseudonym. "Flint," he says. "James Flint."

Gates raises a glass. "To Captain Flint."


End file.
